


faster, faster

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:45:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU in which Zayn is a pizza boy and Harry is a lawyer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	faster, faster

**Author's Note:**

> um. i'm sorry for this.
> 
> entirely the fault of specter at LJ.

“Fuck,” Zayn hisses.  
  
Traffic is fucking awful. It’s backed up to hell and he leans his head against the window. The pizza’s cooling next to him.  
  
Fuck people that order pizza at rush hour, and his hands are shaking a little bit. He wants to light a cigarette but he can’t, not with the pizza sitting right next to him. (He’s going to be late as it is, he’s not making this worse.)  
  
It’s been too long by the time he gets to the building - a law office, by the looks of it, and he stares up, blinking.  
  
Let’s go, and he walks into the building, pizza in its bag. He gets into the elevator, brimming with a sort of nervousness he only ever feels when he’s on the job (because he needs this, needs the money or else he’s going to lose his fucking apartment) and he watches the numbers going up, up, up.  
  
21\. The doors open and he goes to get out - and smashes into a curly-headed someone.  
  
“Shit,” Zayn says, and the bag (not fully closed, of fucking course) opens the rest of the way, tipping the pizza onto the guy, now lying on the floor. “I’m so sorry, really -”  
  
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” the guy says, and he stands up, staring down at his shirt - white, splattered with pizza sauce and grease. “Watch where the fuck you’re going, you idiot.”  
  
Zayn swallows, and bites his lip, nodding. “I’m -”  
  
“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit,” and the guy rolls his eyes. “Fucking - Louis!”  
  
A guy with brown hair in a pair of suspenders pokes his head out of the office. “Yes, Harry darling?” His gaze flits to Zayn, and he seems to light up. “Pizza!”  
  
“Pizza on my fucking shirt,” Harry snaps, “I thought we were waiting to get lunch until we were done?”  
  
Louis shrugs, a quiet sort of fuck you. “I like pizza and I’m hungry.”  
  
Harry scoffs and brushes past Zayn without so much as a backwards glance. “Fuck this,” and he’s gone, slamming a door behind him.  
  
Louis smiles at Zayn, and he doesn’t seem patronizing. “Harry’s just a little bit stressed out. You ran into him at a bad time, is all.”  
  
Zayn nods, and he looks at the floor, where the box is still there, half-open. “Shit,” and he bends down, getting everything together. “I’m sorry. I’ll get you another, but it’ll take a while -”  
  
“You know what, that’s all right.” Louis looks toward the door Harry went through, and shakes his head. “I’ll just eat later.”  
  
“Are you -” Zayn starts but Louis looks at him, and it’s a bit panicked, feels a bit like leave now.  
  
Zayn nods. “Have a nice afternoon,” he says, voice dull. He can tell something’s wrong but it’s not his place to wonder, to worry.  
  
He turns around and hears the sound of Louis running to the room, the door clicking shut behind him.  
  
Zayn gets into the elevator, and presses the RC key.  
  
Shit.  
  
*  
  
“He’s really sort of gorgeous,” Zayn says, looking over at Niall.  
  
Niall raises an eyebrow, lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling. “Is he, now,” and there’s something off in his voice but Zayn chooses to ignore it.  
  
“Yeah,” and he knows how stupid he is (how Harry shouted at him; and how it shouldn’t have turned him on but he jerked off when he got home, muffled moans into the crook of his arm). “He - yeah.”  
  
“He was a dick to you.” Niall turns to look at him properly, sitting up on his arm. “And you’re just thinking about how hot he is?”  
  
Zayn half-shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe I deserved it.”  
  
Niall’s quiet for a long moment, and then he says, very soft, “I’ve never heard you sound like this before.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Dunno, do I,” and a pause, “but I don’t like it. Doesn’t sound like you, mate.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Zayn says, because he is; he doesn’t know another way to say it and have it sound any less trite. “I just -”  
  
“No, I get it.” Niall half-smiles at him, punches him in the arm. “You’re in love, you idiot.”  
  
“‘m not in love,” Zayn mumbles, and he closes his eyes, smiling. “Just think he’s pretty.”  
  
“Better hope he doesn’t order any more pizza,” and Zayn hears him get up, put their bottles in the sink.  
  
He forces himself to stay awake, though he keeps his eyes shut. “Why?”  
  
“You know how you are.”  
  
“No,” and he sits up, weirdly angry now, “how am I?”  
  
Niall turns from the sink, wiping his hands. “Look,” and he’s wary. “I’m not trying to insult you - just saying, be careful. That’s all.”  
  
“Careful of what?”  
  
“The guy who was a huge dick to you -”  
  
“I spilled pizza on him!”  
  
Niall huffs. “You don’t know this guy, why are you making excuses for him, then?”  
  
“I’m not -”  
  
“Oh, fucking hell.” Niall rolls his eyes and the room goes silent.  
  
(Later, he feels a kiss pressed against his forehead, hears a soft careful that he’s half-sure he imagines - because it’s not as though he needs to be told; he knows how to be okay.  
  
He sleeps, and his dreams are sporadic.  
  
He doesn’t remember anything in the morning.)  
  
*  
  
He picks up more shifts.  
  
It’s stupid, he knows - but he can’t get Harry’s face out of his mind, the twisting sneer, the way his hair fell over his eyes. He needs to see him again, if only to realize that he’s not all Zayn’s made him out to be.  
  
(And, god, he hopes that’s the case - because Niall’s been too snappy around him lately, angry, and he needs to get rid of this fast.)  
  
He waits for Louis to order more pizza (he’d said he liked it, after all), and then Zayn can apologize.  
  
Zayn’s always prided himself on being pretty well-liked. He doesn’t know how to deal with the hate Harry’s shown him, and he has to make it right (even if they’re not likely to meet again, even if Harry runs in circles Zayn doesn’t dream of entering; he has to try).  
  
Niall sits back and watches him and clicks his tongue when Zayn picks up more shifts - more and more, until the apartment is full of messy clothes and magazines haphazardly strewn in the time before Zayn falls asleep, usually on the couch.  
  
“You’re being stupid, mate,” Niall tells him (and it sounds even more patronizing in his stupid fucking Irish accent), but he doesn’t get it. Not really. He doesn’t get why Zayn wants to put things right. If he’s being honest with himself, neither does Zayn.  
  
And so Zayn shrugs and he keeps going in, throwing the shirt on every morning and just barely making it to class; he works and he learns and he goes back to working.  
  
When he tries to draw (just to get some of the tension out) his hands shake, and. He puts the pencils down, for a while.  
  
*  
  
Louis doesn’t order anything for two weeks. Zayn’s starting to doubt he will at all.  
  
He’s exhausted; he’s not been sleeping properly (perhaps working full-time as well as being a student wasn’t the best plan) but he needs to make this right, needs to apologize.  
  
He goes into the office the next day, and his hands shake on the elevator ride up.  
  
Harry’s just outside the door when Zayn steps out, and he turns, looking a bit surprised and then angry when he sees Zayn.  
  
“Pizza boy,” and he sounds almost amused. “What are you doing here? I told Louis not to call there anymore -”  
  
“He didn’t,” because Zayn feels like he has to keep Louis out of trouble. “I, um.”  
  
“You?” and Harry steps forward, raises an eyebrow.  
  
Zayn stands his ground, much as he wants to turn around and leave. “I wanted to - apologize.”  
  
“For?”  
  
“Dropping the pizza,” and this comes out shaky, barely a whisper.  
  
(Harry’s still really fucking gorgeous, this close. His mind’s been under-exaggerating, if anything, and Zayn swallows dry. He wants to properly apologize, let Harry take control until he’s forgiven.)  
  
“Ah,” and Harry half-smiles, predatory. “I see.”  
  
With those words, that tone, Zayn feels small and silly. “I’m sorry, I’ll just -”  
  
“No.” Harry looks both ways and then grabs Zayn’s arm, dragging him into an empty cubicle. “No,” and then he’s kissing him, hard, pressing him up against the door.  
  
“What,” Zayn gasps out between kisses, but then Harry’s mouthing at his neck, fingers working at his belt, and - well. He’s not complaining.  
  
“You want this?” Harry asks as he presses up against him, bears down. “You want me to fuck you?”  
  
“Yeah,” Zayn whispers, licking over his lip, “y-yeah.”  
  
Harry smirks. “Too bad,” and then Zayn’s being turned around, pushed to his knees.  
  
Zayn looks up at him. “What,” he says again, too breathless for it to come out as a question.  
  
Harry raises one eyebrow. “Suck me off?” but that’s not a question either, not really.  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” because Zayn hadn’t realized how much he wanted it - but yeah, he wants Harry’s dick in his mouth, wants Harry to be the one falling apart. (Maybe then he can get this out of his system, can move on.)  
  
“Well?”  
  
Zayn unzips Harry’s dress pants, pushing them and his boxers down to his knees - clumsily, because Harry’s dick is actually perfect.  
  
“Have you done this before?” Harry asks, in an almost bored tone.  
  
Zayn nods, determined. (Not enough to be really confident, though.)  
  
“Get to it, then.”  
  
Zayn leans in, sucking just the head into his mouth, and Harry lets out a low gasp, fingers flying to Zayn’s hair, holding him there, gripping tight.  
  
He moves quickly, efficiently - he wants it to be good, wants Harry to praise him (and oh, he knows it’s fucked, but he’s never quite wanted that with anyone else).  
  
When Harry comes, Zayn’s hard in his jeans, and Harry holds him down, making him swallow. Zayn looks up at him as he does, eyes wide.  
  
Harry half-grins. “Not a bad apology.” Zayn goes hot, and then he’s being grabbed up, pressed against the door, and there’s a hand in his jeans, working him furiously. Harry’s mouth cuts off any noises he might have made.  
  
He comes with a choked-off moan and his hand grabbing at the door frame, and Harry leans back, smirking, pleased.  
  
“Apology accepted,” he whispers against the shell of Zayn’s ear, and then he’s straightening his clothes, fixing everything just so.  
  
He leaves with a curt nod to Zayn, and the door shuts quietly behind him.  
  
*  
  
“So what you’re telling me is that you aren’t over it.” Niall says this in a forced deadpan, but Zayn can hear the undercurrent of real disapproval beneath it .  
  
He half-shrugs, picking at his nails. “Guess so, yeah.”  
  
Niall breathes out, passing Zayn the joint. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot, mate.” His accent’s always thicker when he’s stoned.  
  
Zayn takes it, breathes it in, eyes shutting for a blissful moment. “Guess so,” and his voice is too-thick in his throat. “But that’s all right.”  
  
“If you say so,” and Niall still sounds the same (like he doesn’t approve) so Zayn leans over, kissing him quickly on the neck.  
  
“Sorry,” and he’s not really sure what he’s apologizing for, but.  
  
Niall scoots closer to him on the balcony, pressing their hips together for a second. They look out over the New York skyline (they can’t see shit except for buildings and smog, but it’s nice all the same). “Y’know I’ll always love you, yeah?”  
  
Zayn turns to him, passes the joint back, smirks. “I know.”  
  
“Even when you’re being a right twat.” A beat. “Like now.”  
  
Zayn shrugs, feeling too old for his skin. “I know,” and this comes out soft, barely a whisper. “I just.” He can’t say anything beyond that - can’t explain why Harry’s different (but he knows he is, Harry’s so much more than Zayn can explain).  
  
The joint’s burnt out, and Niall blows out his last breath of smoke. “Yeah.”  
  
They stand and look over the railing, and it’s not peaceful but it’s almost nice.  
  
*  
  
Zayn draws for the first time in a long while that night.  
  
They get back inside and they’re drenched in night air and sweet smoke and Zayn draws Niall, staring out the window, makes him hold still for the twenty minutes it takes.  
  
His hands are smudged with charcoal when he’s through, and he rubs them together, remembering a feeling he’s almost forgotten.  
  
Niall grins down at it, says passable as though he’s not impressed, and presses a kiss to Zayn’s fingertips, grabs the picture with a shaking hand.  
  
Zayn sleeps better that night, feeling a relief thrum through him that he hasn’t in what feels like ages (but has only been a couple of weeks, not even a month).  
  
In the morning, the picture is on the fridge but Niall’s looking at him as though not quite sure who Zayn is, and his morning is stiff, forced.  
  
Zayn frowns at him. “What’s up?”  
  
“You’re going to try to talk to Harry again, aren’t you?” There’s something off in his voice, and he isn’t looking at Zayn properly.  
  
He half-shrugs. “Maybe.”  
  
Niall breathes out. “You -” but he doesn’t finish, just grabs his bag and leaves, shuts the door too-tight behind him.  
  
Zayn rubs his hands together, the phantom feel of charcoal on his skin. It almost calms him down.  
  
*  
  
Niall doesn’t properly speak to him for a couple of days. He’s always out when Zayn gets home, always with a note (usually something along the lines of z - went out, back later. n x that Zayn doodles on when he orders take-out for one, missing Niall’s chatter in his ear) waiting for him, dinner not made.  
  
It’s lonely, those nights, but when he gets back on Wednesday Niall’s sitting on the couch, knee bouncing.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, standing up to pull Zayn close, “I’ve been really shit but - I’m sorry.”  
  
Zayn half-laughs, shaking his head. “Fine,” because it is, because he gets it. He’s a fucking idiot sometimes, and Niall just cares.  
  
Niall pulls away a bit and looks at him. “I am worried about you, though.”  
  
“Don’t be,” and he laughs, shakes his head.  
  
“No, really - I don’t like the way you talk about this guy.”  
  
“Niall.” Zayn grabs his hands, moves them off of his hips, lacing their fingers together. “People have one night stands, okay? This is going to blow over in a couple of weeks. You know me, hopeless romantic.”  
  
(It’s true. He’s fucked a lot of people but each time he manages to convince himself it’ll be more, everything, as stupid as it sounds.)  
  
Niall shakes his head. “It’s not a one night stand, though.”  
  
Zayn raises an eyebrow.  
  
“You weren’t drunk.” Niall’s voice is soft, careful. “Aren’t you usually drunk?”  
  
He breathes out, sharp, and shrugs. “Shall we call it a mistake, then?”  
  
“Is that what you want to call it?”  
  
Harry’s face flashes into his mind, smirking at him, that goddamn eyebrow raised in a challenge. Zayn nods. “Yeah, ‘course.”  
  
“You’re not going back?” His voice is small.  
  
A beat, and then, “No way, Nialler.”  
  
Niall grins, wide, and tilts his head back toward the couch. “Was watching Fight Club, care to join?”  
  
Zayn laughs. “Do you have to ask?”  
  
(They settle in to watch the movie, and Zayn tries to convince himself that he isn’t lying, that it’s a mistake and nothing more.  
  
Because he is angry, somewhere in him. He’s angry and hurt and a thousand other things; but he thinks about Harry’s face and it dulls, a bit, until there’s a tiny vein of affection running through it all.)  
  
Niall’s curled up against his side and don’t go back to him runs through his head.  
  
Half through the movie he gets up and grabs his paper and a piece of charcoal, draws shapes and lines and the half-shadows of a person. He draws until there’s nothing, until the movie’s over and Niall’s dozing on his shoulder. He leans his head back, then, and tries to sleep, reminding himself - don’t go back don’tdon’tdon’t because wanting something doesn’t make it good, doesn’t make it right.  
  
He won’t.  
  
*  
  
He gets ridiculously drunk on Saturday.  
  
He feels like he deserves it; after the fucking week he’s had, he deserves to get a little bit shitfaced and do something stupid.  
  
When he wakes up the next morning, it’s with a hangover and an empty bed next to him; someone’s been there, though, and Zayn’s just in a pair of boxers under the sheets.  
  
Niall was supposed to take care of me \- and with that, a flash of memory (a blonde head licking up his cock, grinning up at him, his own perpetually coal-stained fingertips gripping at the sheets) and he shuts his eyes.  
  
“Shit,” he says, sharp in the early morning light, and runs a hand through his hair, blinking his eyes open.  
  
He walks out of his room, light burning his eyes - but this is more important than that. He has to talk to Niall.  
  
Niall’s sitting at the kitchen table, sipping at a mug of coffee. When he looks up, he bristles. “I’m sorry,” is how he starts, and he sounds it. Scared.  
  
Zayn frowns. “Why?”  
  
“Er.” Niall looks down. “Do you remember what happened last night?”  
  
Zayn shrugs. “Bits and pieces.” He has a feeling it went further than the blowjob - the way Niall’s sitting in the chair agrees with him.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Niall,” and he makes his voice soft, soothing. “It’s all right.”  
  
“I took advantage of you.”  
  
“I think that only works if one of us was sober.” He half-grins.  
  
Niall bites his lip. “Well, yeah, but -”  
  
Zayn pauses. “You know it doesn’t have to mean anything.”  
  
Niall’s picking at his fingernails. “It doesn’t?”  
  
He shakes his head, feeling like there’s something he’s not seeing - but Niall looks relieved, at that, and pushes another mug of coffee toward him.  
  
(“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, later, whispers into Niall’s ear.  
  
Niall rolls his eyes and nods. “Look - we just fucked once, it’s okay. We’re fine. Right?”   
  
And if Niall’s voice is a little bit sharp - well, Zayn’s not going to call him out on it. He’s probably imagining things. He smiles down at his hands, nods. “All right.”)  
  
*  
  
Things are tense for a time until they’re not.  
  
Niall pulls away, almost imperceptibly; but one night, just like before, he reaches out to Zayn, pulls him close until they can feel each other’s heartbeats.  
  
“We’re still good, right?” Niall asks, voice low.  
  
Zayn smiles, and nods. “Of course,” and he squeezes his shoulder.  
  
It’s sappy but sometimes Niall needs this, needs to be held and comforted for a time. Zayn’s only too willing to give it to him (at least it means he’s not out, getting drunk and fucking someone who doesn’t deserve him).  
  
Niall pulls back, teeth digging at his lower lip. “We’re okay,” he whispers, convincing himself, “we’re going to be okay.”  
  
Zayn thumbs his lip out from between his teeth and nods. “‘Course,” and then, “mind if I draw you again?” His fingers have been itching to capture Niall in some small way.   
  
Niall nods and Zayn draws him eating a granola bar, reading a book, and when it’s complete he grins and thanks him, voice lilting.  
  
And in that time, Zayn almost forgets about Harry.  
  
*  
  
“Let’s go out,” Niall says, one night.  
  
Zayn raises an eyebrow. “Because we saw how well that worked last time?”  
  
Niall scoffs. “You can’t be scared of drinking for the rest of your life, Malik.” He tosses a pair of jeans at him, ignoring Zayn’s insistent I’m not scared, I’m just rational.  
  
And so they go.  
  
It’s different this time; Zayn’s drinking for fun, to be social, not to forget anything. It’s nice to just sit and watch Niall act like an idiot, fend off the advances of drunk girls.  
  
There’s a tap on his shoulder and he turns around, ready to tell another person sorry, but he doesn’t get the words out.  
  
It’s Louis; he looks infinitely more relaxed, here, more comfortable.  
  
He smiles at Zayn, gestures to the seat opposite him. “Mind if I sit, pizza boy?” but it doesn’t sound callous, when he says it, but fond. Almost.  
  
Zayn nods, smiling, taking a sip of his beer. “Absolutely.”  
  
Louis does and then leans forward, conspiratorial. “I wanted to apologize for Harry, that day,” he starts.  
  
Zayn frowns. “What?”  
  
“He was a real dick to you and - well, he tries, but -”  
  
“It’s okay,” and Zayn remembers hot hands on his skin, fingernails biting into his hips. “Really.”  
  
Louis frowns. “Are you sure?”  
  
Zayn stares into his bottle. “And anyway, he - well. He made it up to me, I suppose.”  
  
“Oh, really.” Louis leans back, and his voice almost shakes when he asks, “as inappropriate as it may be to ask someone I don’t know the name of, did you two fuck?”  
  
“My name is Zayn,” he says, and then - “something like that,” and Zayn’s barely got the words out before he realizes he’s done something wrong; Louis’ eyes go sheltered and his body curls in on itself.  
  
“Oh,” Louis says, a horribly forced smile on his face.  
  
“Shit,” and he reaches out, grabs Louis’ arm, “I didn’t know you two were - I promise, I didn’t, I wouldn’t.”  
  
Louis nods, seeming far away. “I know,” and he stands up on shaky legs. “I’m just going to - get some air,” and he nods his head toward the door. “I’ll see you around, pizza boy.”  
  
“Zayn,” he says under his breath, but Louis is already gone, making his way through the crowd.  
  
*  
  
Harry’s on his couch, watching an old rerun of Friends (it’s the shittiest show, but Lou enjoys it) when Louis comes in, slamming the door behind him.  
  
Harry looks up, smiling, and shitfuck runs through his head but he doesn’t let it show. “‘lo, Lou.”  
  
“Did you fuck the pizza boy?”  
  
Harry goes stiff, eyes widening a fraction. “What?”  
  
“Don’t play dumb with me.” Louis pauses, gathering his words, and spits them out in the next sentence - “did you fuck him?”  
  
Harry raises an eyebrow (don’t care don’t give a shit) and shrugs. “Wasn’t fucking, really.”  
  
Louis lets out a dry sob, fists clenching. “You -”  
  
“Yeah?” and Harry turns back to the TV, because if he doesn’t look like he gives a shit maybe Louis won’t either.  
  
“You bastard,” and there’s a pregnant pause. “You fucking bastard. That’s it, we’re done.”  
  
There are no more words exchanged. Louis is there one moment, and Harry can hear the gears in his head turning, can feel the anger rolling off of him; and then he’s gone the next. Nothing but the door’s slam signals his leaving.  
  
Harry turns his head a fraction and sure enough, no one’s there.  
  
It’s just him.  
  
He’s heard the words before, shouted over phone and dinner tables alike, but never have they sounded quite like that; so hurt, so honest.  
  
His fingers shake when he turns up the volume on the TV, and - well. He can drown himself in television for a few hours, let himself go numb. (It’s what he does best, after all.)  
  
He grabs a bottle of vodka after the third episode and it’s half gone by the time he passes out.  
  
*  
  
Zayn takes less shifts at work, after that.  
  
Talking to Louis was cathartic, in a way; he has no desire to see Harry now, after learning who he is and what he does (as though it’s any surprise; as though he didn’t know exactly what he was after that day).  
  
And still - his fucking heart skips a beat when Harry walks through the door. (Sometimes, Zayn wonders if he’s a character in a romance novel; but romance novel heroines get the happy ending, so at least there’s that.)  
  
He’s not buttoned-up - he’s in a white t-shirt and jeans, and he’s scowling and Zayn’s never seen someone who could scowl and still be so pretty).  
  
“Zayn,” Harry says, coming up to the window, and pauses.  
  
Zayn raises an eyebrow. “So you do know my name,” and yeah, there’s nothing there - nothing like before, nothing to make him want Harry. (Well, nothing that should make him.)  
  
Harry frowns. “Can we talk out back, please?”  
  
I didn’t know you knew how to say that, Zayn thinks but doesn’t say. He nods to Niall, gestures outside, and mouths please; Niall looks upset but nods back at him.  
  
“You’ve got five minutes,” Zayn says when they’re out there.  
  
“Oh, do I, now?” Harry asks, rolling his eyes, and then, “you got what you wanted.”  
  
Zayn frowns. “What?”  
  
“Louis - he fucking - you told him we had sex and he dumped me.” Harry shakes his head. “Congratulations, you’ve fucked up my life.”  
  
Zayn raises an eyebrow, huffing out a laugh. “Look, I didn’t know you were in a relationship -”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry says, sarcasm dripping from his words. “Sure you didn’t.”  
  
“It’s true.” Zayn smirks, leaning against the wall. “Not sorry for fucking it up though. You’re a bit of a dick.”  
  
“Am I?” and then Harry’s leaning in close, pressing against him. His fingers barely touch Zayn’s waistband, and he half-growls the next words into his ear - “Are you sure about that?”  
  
Zayn bites his lip, closing his eyes, and he turns them around, so it’s Harry flat against the wall, wide-eyed. “Yeah,” and then they’re kissing, hard, and Zayn’s got his hands on Harry’s hips, pressing his thumbs there. “You are.”  
  
Harry lets out a half-moan and it’s then that Zayn pulls back, running a hand over his hair. “Don’t blame me for what you’ve done,” Zayn says, shaking his head.  
  
Harry’s still breathing too fast, and Zayn smirks. He leans in close. “Bye, love,” he whispers with a kiss to Harry’s cheek.   
  
He goes back inside.  
  
*  
  
Harry goes home, after that.  
  
He’s not going back into work; it isn’t as though they need him around much these days, and he hasn’t taken a day off in years. He can take one for himself (he doesn’t want to see Louis but more than that doesn’t want Louis to see him; doesn’t want to have red-rimmed eyes or shaking hands when they meet again), can sit at home.  
  
He wants Zayn; the pretty boy with the eyelashes and the neck. God, he wants to sink his teeth into the soft flesh there, bite until Zayn’s eyes roll back inside his head - but. But.  
  
(He shouldn’t want him. Zayn’s too young, too pretty for his tastes - too pure to be fucked up, to be broken. But that was how Louis was, at the beginning, and look at what he’s done.  
  
He shouldn’t want Zayn but he does, wants to make him scream.)  
  
And he has an idea of when Zayn works; and so he calls in, voice pitched deliberately low, orders the first thing he can think of (small pineapple and mushroom, please, and it’s only after that he realizes it’s the kind of pizza Lou never let him eat) and asks with the most innocent voice he can muster for Zayn to come deliver.  
  
He does; he looks haggard, tired, and he all but throws the pizza at him, runs a hand over his hair. He rattles off the price without looking at him properly and Harry smirks (doesn’t want me, bullshit).  
  
“What time do you get off tonight?” he asks, voice candy-sweet and soft.  
  
Zayn jerks his head up to look at him, eyes wide, incredulous. “Why are you asking?”  
  
Harry walks over to him, standing by the door, rests a hand on his hip. “Do you really need to ask?” He’s having fun with this whole thing; it’s been a while since he’s had a chance to turn it on like this, to really try to get someone in bed (or against a wall, on a counter, on the floor. Harry’s never been picky about who he fucks or where).  
  
Zayn breathes out, looking for all the world like he’s arguing with himself, and then he seems to deflate, chest caving in on itself. “I get off at nine,” and it sounds almost bored but Harry can hear the very real reluctance and want behind it.  
  
“Come here right after,” and Harry fingers the hem of Zayn’s shirt, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t need to change.”  
  
“Oh?” and Zayn huffs out a half-laugh, backing away from him, until he’s pressed against the wall. Only then does he look worried (out of control, Harry thinks, and oh they’ve only just begun), does he try to look for an exit.  
  
“Yeah,” Harry whispers, crowding in against him. It’s just like outside but better; because all he can hear is their breathing, just this side of too-fast (outofcontrol). “You’ll be here, won’t you, love?”  
  
Zayn breathes out, at that, and nods. “Yeah, ‘course,” as though it’s nothing, as though he doesn’t know what’s going  to happen tonight.  
  
(But it’s true, isn’t it. He really has no fucking idea what Harry’s got planned; Harry himself doesn’t have that much beyond vague ideas, what he wants and what he thinks Zayn does too.  
  
He wants tied wrists and blindfolds and he wants to fuck Zayn until he screams.  
  
But that can wait for later. They can figure that out later.)  
  
“Good boy,” and he watches as Zayn’s chest rises and falls a little bit more quickly, the way his eyes go dark at the endearment. He quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t call him out on it. They’ll have all the time for that later.  
  
Zayn turns to leave.  
  
“Your tie, too,” Harry says, as though an afterthought.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Wear your tie too. Don’t take it off.”  
  
Zayn swallows (he knows what that means) but he just nods, too-agreeable in the dark of Harry’s room.  
  
(Harry wants to watch him break, push him too far and let him try to piece himself back together. He wants Zayn shattering, wants him breaking every rule he’s ever set for himself.  
  
After all, that’s when you see who people really are; when you break them their true colors show.)  
  
Zayn nods at nothing, and then Harry’s turning around, grabbing the pizza and tossing it onto the table.  
  
He hears Zayn deliberate for a moment (Harry’s not paid for it) but he leaves without another word, leaving only the slowly cooling pizza behind.  
  
Harry smirks.  
  
*  
  
“Don’t go,” Niall says.  
  
Zayn stares at him (the rest of the shop is quiet, the place less busy in the after-dinner hours. “Why the fuck not?”  
  
“You’re going to get hurt,” is all he says.  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes, and rolls a crick out of his neck. “You’re wrong.”  
  
Niall breathes out sharp and studies him properly. “He’s not good for you.”  
  
“How the fuck would you know?”  
  
Niall takes a step back like he’s been physically hurt. “It’s true. He’s not good for you and you’re just too stubborn to see it.”  
  
“I’m not deluding myself,” Zayn mumbles, “it’s not like I want to date him. I mean, shit, he’s not – no. I’m not doing that. I just – it seems fun, all right?”  
  
“Fun.” Niall raises an eyebrow. “He orders you to come to his house and that’s fun?”  
  
Zayn turns a light pink. “Well, when you put it like that.”  
  
“That’s because it is,” but Niall drops it after that, murmured almost under his breath (just enough so Zayn can still hear it, though). “And I thought we had plans tonight?”  
  
“Uh.” Zayn pauses, looking at him, head tilted. “Did we?”  
  
“Watching Pirates and making fun of the new girl?”  
  
Zayn blinks at him. “Oh,” though he’s not entirely sure he remembers. “Right. Uh. Raincheck?”  
  
Niall just nods, staring at his hands, and doesn’t say another word.  
  
“Sorry,” Zayn tries.  
  
“You’re not,” Niall whispers back, and then a customer walks in and breaks up their conversation.  
  
*  
  
Zayn isn’t late.  
  
Harry grins at him when he opens the door, turns him around and presses him against it. “Missed me?” he asks, and he’s already hard against Zayn’s thigh.  
  
Zayn doesn’t say anything, kisses him, and then he feels hands circling his wrists, pressing them up, above his head.  
  
Harry pulls back enough that Zayn has to arch to reach him, and then he raises an eyebrow, shaking his head.   
  
“What do you want?” Harry asks, whispers, and when Zayn’s silent he smirks, pressing in close to rub against him, until he’s whining in his jeans. And then he repeats it, whisper-soft; “What do you want?”  
  
“Fuck,” Zayn hisses, fingers flexing where they’re being held up, and Harry’s hand tightens for just a moment.  
  
“Come on,” he says then, and leads Zayn to the bedroom, pushes him down on the bed, smirking.  
  
Zayn lies where he is, breathing coming out in short, shallow pants, and he nods when Harry presses him down against the mattress, whispers stay, harsh.  
  
“Yeah, please, come on, want,” he hisses, and he’s just making noise by this point; he needs Harry to do something more than just look at him.  
  
Harry grins, and nods, biting down hard at the juncture between his neck and collarbone. “Gonna mark you,” he whispers against the skin, “make you mine, all mine.”  
  
“Yeah,” and his hips shift against nothing, just the air, “yeah, Harry -” He feels a bruise forming high above the collar of most of his shirts (and won’t that be fun to explain to Niall) and winces in the best mix of pleasure-pain.  
  
Harry strips him slowly, keeping all of his own clothes on, and when he’s through he just looks at him as though he’s something to eat, something to be made his, consumed.  
  
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, and in the dim light it doesn’t feel like a lie or a confession. (It feels honest.)  
  
It’s too slow and too fast, all of it; and Harry’s taking control and Zayn lets him, entirely.  
  
Harry pins him down into the mattress and pushes fingers into him with only the barest amount of care; he fucks him hard, deep, until Zayn comes with a shout. Harry bites his own into his the bruise already on his neck, and Zayn hisses, shifts away from under him.  
  
He curls up on his side and Harry cleans them off, kisses Zayn’s shoulder, holds him tight against him.  
  
(His hands don’t feel comforting; they feel like they’re trapping him there, holding him down, and he can barely breathe.)  
  
*  
  
Zayn doesn’t stay the night.  
  
He leaves when Harry’s asleep, pulling on his boxers and pants and shutting the door tight behind him.  
  
The night is warm and when he gets back to his apartment he just sits there a while, staring at his hands.  
  
Niall’s not awake when he gets in. Every sound seems too loud in the dark and he takes a shower with a hand pressed against his mouth, trying not to cry (and what the fuck, he doesn’t cry, he doesn’t).  
  
He wraps himself in a towel after and falls to the bathroom floor, feet pressed hard against the tile. His hip still hurts; he thinks it might bruise (of course it will, of fucking course). His hip hurts and he’s a little bit sore but the shower helped, it did.  
  
(He can’t get Harry’s face out of his head, though. Harry’s face when he’d looked at him, alternately like he was just another fuck and the most beautiful person alive.  
  
He doesn’t know how to deal with that; there’s only one Harry and he can’t do that, can’t act like two people just because they fuck.)  
  
He falls asleep with his head resting on the bath mat and it’s probably disgusting but he doesn’t care. He dreams of curly hair and handcuffs, and when he wakes up feels no better at all.  
  
*  
  
They start something, after that.  
  
Harry tires of pizza pretty quickly and drops that charade, choosing instead to text Zayn at inopportune moments – things like want to fuck you and come over tonight, not-so-dirty things that make Zayn squeeze his eyes shut regardless.  
  
They fuck. It’s nothing more or less than that; they fuck and Harry bears down on him, sometimes, and sometimes Zayn takes charge (not in the same way, of course not, but as much as he likes listening he likes watching Harry take his orders, do as he says).  
  
Niall watches from the sidelines, watches as Zayn doesn’t sleep at home, some nights, as the circles under his eyes get darker, he gets thinner.  
  
(“You’re not okay,” he says one night.  
  
Usually Zayn would argue with him but he’s bone-tired and he just nods, rolls over to press his face against Niall’s thigh.  
  
“I know,” he whispers, and then “but I can’t stop seeing him.”  
  
Niall clucks but not disapprovingly (as though he’s worried), and Zayn presses a kiss there, lingers for a moment while Niall’s hand cards through his hair.  
  
“I worry about you,” Niall murmurs just before Zayn falls asleep (he’s got a remarkable knack for when that’s about to happen, just before Zayn drops off).  
  
“I know,” and that’s all he manages before he falls asleep, curled up on the edge of the couch.  
  
(He wakes up alone and with a blanket covering him, a pillow under his head. He’s stretched out along the length of the couch and his bones hurt; he takes a moment to wonder at how long it’s been since he’s slept properly, like this.  
  
He’s been falling asleep curled up and waking up that way too; there are finger-shaped bruises on his wrists and his thighs and he presses his own fingers against them before he falls asleep sometimes, just to have something to feel.  
  
He lies there for a long time before curling up, pressing in on himself.)  
  
*  
  
“Louis has a girlfriend,” Liam tells Harry one day.  
  
He says it sort of apologetically but not really; that’s the thing about Liam, is he’s always honest even when he has to say tough things.  
  
(Harry was like that, once, and then the world fucked him over. He’s not honest anymore.)  
  
Harry breathes out, sharp. “Oh.”  
  
Liam’s eyes are searching. “Want to go to the bar tonight?”  
  
Harry nods.  
  
Liam doesn’t drink but he pretends, orders a beer and asks as though he doesn’t ask the waiter to make it non-alcoholic. (Harry stares into the distance and pretends he doesn’t hear it.)  
  
“How are you?” Liam asks him, when Harry’s half too drunk and feeling like shit.  
  
He shrugs, the corners of his mouth pulling down. He takes another long swig, considering his words. “Shitty,” he settles on, because it’s true. “I just – so fucking shitty.”  
  
“I thought you were seeing someone new? That guy, the one –”  
  
“The one Lou dumped me over?” Harry shrugs. “We’re just – it’s sex, you know. Just sex.”  
  
Liam frowns. “is that it?”  
  
Harry nods. “He’s a bit of an ass but he’s good in bed.”  
  
“Ah.” He looks a little bit disgusted but Harry’s not sure it’s from the conversation or from the way Harry drinks half a bottle of beer in one go, a bit coming out of the corner of his mouth. “Here,” he says, handing him a napkin.  
  
Harry smiles his thanks and cleans himself up, his hands shaking.  
  
“So Lou’s got himself someone new, then?” he finally asks, when he can’t stand it.  
  
“Yeah.” Liam’s voice is forcedly casual. “Her name is Eleanor, she works downstairs.”  
  
“I don’t know her.”  
  
“Of course you don’t,” Liam asks. Harry doesn’t ask what he means.  
  
He lets another long pause pass before he continues. “So – that’s it, then?”  
  
“You can’t blame him,” and Liam’s voice is soft, “you did –”  
  
“I know,” because he remembers, he was there. “I just – that’s quick, is all.”  
  
Liam shrugs. “Suppose.”  
  
“I’m not.” Harry pauses. “Over it.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I want to be.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“He just – three years, Li.”  
  
“Harry, I know,” but he doesn’t sound annoyed (like Harry himself would be), just fond and a little bit worried.  
  
“Is she pretty?” Harry asks.  
  
Liam frowns. “I’m not –”  
  
“Just want to know.” He pauses, gathering his words. “She nice?”  
  
“Harry.” Liam reaches out, grabbing Harry’s hands, and he jerks – he hadn’t realized how cold his hands were. “You were a dick to Louis, okay? Almost anyone is nice after you.”  
  
Harry breathes out, looking down. “S’at what you think of me?”  
  
“When you’re around him? Yeah, it is.” Now he sounds annoyed; Harry always seems to bring that out in him.  
  
Harry frowns. “I want another drink.”  
  
“No,” and Liam’s grip tightens on his wrist. “I’m taking you home.”  
  
“Don’t wanna go home,” he half-whispers, eyes shutting.  
  
“Why don’t you go to Zayn’s, then,” Liam says, sounding like he can’t quite choose whether to be annoyed or fond.  
  
Harry starts, looking at him. “I can’t – I can’t,” because Zayn and he, they aren’t like that, they’re passion and a little bit of hate and too fucked up for calm. (He doesn’t go to Zayn’s house.)  
  
Liam frowns. “I know, babe.” He smooths a hand over the side of Harry’s face, smiling. “Want to come to my place?”  
  
Liam has a couch and warm blankets, and Harry nods, letting himself be pulled outside, lean against Liam’s shoulder.  
  
“You’re wonderful,” he whispers into the curve of Liam’s neck. (There was a time he’d have tried to fuck Liam, break him like all the rest, but he cares too much, now. It makes him vulnerable, fragile, and Liam’s the only one he doesn’t mind it with.)  
  
Liam half-laughs, pulling him tight. “I know.”  
  
Harry falls asleep as soon as he hits the couch, sprawling for what feels like the first time in days.  
  
“Good night,” he hears as he goes, and then nothing.  
  
*  
  
He sees them, on Monday.  
  
Lou’s hands are on her hips, and he brushes a lock of hair out of her face before leaning into kiss her, sweet, soft.  
  
(It’s everything he and Harry weren’t; it’s nice and careful and it makes him roll his eyes, turn around.)  
  
He works by himself that day, snapping at anyone who dares to talk to him, and by the end of it he’s shaking, and needs to let some tension out, needs to see Zayn, fuck him (remind himself that he’s not too much of a fuck-up, that there are some things in his life that he hasn’t ruined yet).  
  
He calls, though, and there’s no answer; and a few hours later there’s still nothing.  
  
He grabs a bottle of vodka.  
  
*  
  
“Draw me,” Niall had said, because they both had the day off; and why not?  
  
Things haven’t quite been the same with them since  everything started, and it’s nice, to pull out his sketchpad and draw the familiar contours of Niall’s face, to not have to try to not care.  
  
(With Harry, he always has to try; he has to try and pretend because as much as he’d love to be the kind of person that Harry is he’s not, he cares too much about people and loves them too quickly and, and.)  
  
Niall laughs like he hasn’t in days and curls up against Zayn’s side, presses a kiss to his neck.  
  
Zayn tilts his head, smiling, looking up at the ceiling.  
  
Niall reaches out, thumbing at the drawing, smudging his hair just barely. “You’re good,” he says, like he used to.  
  
Zayn half-shrugs. “I could be, I guess. If I really tried.” There are too many flaws in his work; faces become too angular, too sharp, hair too cartoonish. It’s his style but not the one he wants to have and he spends too much of his time throwing out sketchpads filled with nothing but attempts at something better.  
  
Niall shakes his head. “I mean it. This is – wow.”  
  
Zayn looks at it, really looks. Somewhere in the background he hears his phone go off but he ignores it, trying to see what Niall sees.  
  
(A laughing face, braces barely visible. Teeth too sharp, hair too big. Eyes smaller than they should be, more calculating.  
  
Niall looks crueler than he could ever be.  
  
Harry manages to make his way into everything Zayn creates.)  
  
“It’s just – good,” Niall says, and smudges it again, getting black on his thumb. He frowns, wiping it on the edge of the page, and Zayn shrugs, tossing the book at him.  
  
“Take it, then,” and his voice is cruel. “Fucking take it.”  
  
Niall stares at him, eyes wide. “What?”  
  
“Take the fucking book and the pencils and – draw yourself, then, learn to draw and be happy with it, don’t lie to me to make me feel better.”  
  
(He knows he sounds crazy, knows Niall would never (could never) lie to him about this – but the anger roils in him, hot and fast, and he can’t ignore it, can’t stamp it down.)  
  
Niall shakes his head. “You’re being stupid.”  
  
“I’m being stupid?” but he is, of course he is – Niall’s still looking at him with those wide, almost accusing eyes.  
  
Niall stands up, hands shaking. “You take your own fuckin’ book,” and he tosses it back to him, the black on his thumb smearing against the cover, “and – don’t blame me for your relationship problems, all right?”  
  
“We’re not talking about that, we’re talking about this piece of–” Zayn starts, and Niall laughs, a hollow, almost broken sound.  
  
“Yeah, ‘course we are.” He looks tired, now, runs a hand through his hair. “You done yelling at me yet?”  
  
The anger’s calmed down, enough that he can nod and almost  mean it.  
  
Niall visibly swallows. “Good, love.” He pauses, looks at the book. “I dunno why you don’t want to hear this but you’re good, Zayn. You’re really fucking good.”  
  
Zayn just nods, too spent to argue, to really comprehend it.  
  
Niall presses a kiss to the top of his head and Zayn falls asleep there, at the edge of the couch (it’s three in the afternoon on a Saturday but he needs the rest, hasn’t been sleeping well; too many nightmares).  
  
He wakes up and it’s dark outside. Niall’s puttering around in the kitchen, singing something under his breath, and Zayn feels a rush of fondness clutch at his chest, make him feel like shit.  
  
He goes into the kitchen, wraps his arms around Niall from behind, whispers “I’m sorry” into his ear.  
  
Niall laughs, and shrugs. “You’re a dick, mate. Known that for ages.”  
  
Zayn swats at him but he laughs, too, and it feels easy.  
  
He goes into the bedroom and his phone beeps at him. He frowns, and opens the message.  
  


Sent: 2:32 pm

From: Harry Styles

come over? xx

  
He should reply, should see if it’s still okay, but instead he pulls on a nicer shirt and heads out, grabbing his keys.  
  
“You’re leaving?” Niall calls, sounding genuinely curious, not accusing.  
  
“Yeah,” and he’s distracted – he wants to see Harry, needs to feel him. “Dunno when I’ll be back, though.”  
  
“Oh,” and he sounds almost sad. “I’ll – okay.”  
  
Zayn goes to him, presses a kiss to his forehead. “We’re good, yeah?”  
  
“’Course.” Niall grins. “Go to Harry.”  
  
*  
  
Zayn rings the doorbell three times before Harry gets up to answer it.  
  
He tries to slam the door shut, but the fucking idiot doesn’t leave, presses a hand against the door and pushes. And – well, Harry’s had maybe half the bottle of vodka and his coordination isn’t what it once was.  
  
“Whatever,” and he goes back to the couch, some shitty infomercial playing on the tv. “I’m not having sex with you,” he half-threatens, and he expects Zayn to leave, shut the door behind him.  
  
Harry could deal with that; it’s what he’d do, after all.  
  
But after a moment there are hands pulling him up and then his head’s being rested on Zayn’s lap instead of the pillow, and there’s a hand carding through his curls, gentle. The bottle is pulled out of his hands and he wants to reach for it but doesn’t, stays still.  
  
“Go ‘way,” Harry murmurs, but his head is fuzzy and it feels – nice, this.  
  
“No,” and that’s the end of it.  
  
They stay there for Harry doesn’t know how long, but when the sky outside is totally dark he presses a kiss to Zayn’s thigh.  
  
(Now would be a good time to say things; he could tell Zayn about Louis, about Eleanor, but he thinks Zayn might leave if he hears it.  
  
I’m not a good person, Harry wants to say; but it’s true, and he’s too selfish to give Zayn the chance to leave.  
  
He reaches out, grabbing Zayn’s hand, and tangles their fingers together. He’s falling apart, a little bit, but for the moment Zayn’s there to catch him.  
  
“Thank you,” he whispers into the stillness, and Zayn’s hand freezes for a moment but then returns to its motions.  
  
“Of course,” he whispers back.  
  
Harry falls asleep.  
  
*  
  
Zayn leaves, once Harry falls asleep. He doesn’t want Harry to wake up and wonder, yell at Zayn for overstepping boundaries.  
  
It isn’t as though he was trying to – to fucking take advantage, or something. He just wanted to help (and seemed to).  
  
He wants to know what happened but he won’t push; he doesn’t have the right. Theirs isn’t a relationship, it’s nothing more than fucking and he can’t force Harry to talk about something with him, of all people.  
  
He wakes up feeling almost content.  
  
Niall’s sitting at the kitchen table, a pot of coffee brewing, and Zayn drops a kiss onto his head, smiles.  
  
“How’d last night go?” Niall asks, as though trying to be casual.  
  
Zayn shrugs. “It was all right,” because he doesn’t think Harry’d want anyone else knowing. He seems too private for that, too much as though he’s trying to put on a front.  
  
(It was scary, seeing him like that; curled in on himself, sheltered, and Zayn’d wanted nothing more than to protect him in that moment.)  
  
Niall frowns. “You sure? You seem… different.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Well, usually when you come back you’re all drawn in and sad.” Niall pauses. “You seem happy this time.”  
  
Zayn smiles, looking down at the table. “Ah.”  
  
“Are you?” Niall asks, small and guarded.  
  
Zayn looks at him. “I dunno. Maybe.”  
  
(This shouldn’t make him happy. And it doesn’t. It makes him feel dirty and used but so good that he can’t stop, doesn’t want to.  
  
Harry fucks him hard and leaves his mark in the form of bruises, and sometimes when Zayn gets overwhelmed he presses his fingers against them, breathes intwothreefour outtwothreefour until he can handle the world again.  
  
It keeps him grounded, in the sickest way.)  
  
Niall’s still studying him, and Zayn grins, pats his back. “Let’s watch a movie,” and they curl up together on the couch until Niall falls asleep, head resting on Zayn’s leg (so like Harry; but so, so different).  
  
*  
  
Harry wakes up alone.  
  
He’s curled up on the couch, the tv off. There’s a blanket draped over him and a bottle of water (and two aspirin, of course) on the coffee table.  
  
He breathes out, sharp, and sits up to run a hand through his hair.  
  
He remembers snatches of the night before - of hours and hours of radio silence, the vodka, Zayn coming in and fucking petting him (and Harry hadn’t minded, is the thing; he’d liked it).   
  
And now, with the light of day, he thinks fuck and runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands just a bit.  
  
He has to get to Zayn, has to - to check his motives, see what’s going on.  
  
And he’ll thank him, keep him around as long as he can (and maybe tonight he’ll fuck him until he can’t walk, until he’s begging for more and less all at once).  
  
He rolls off of the couch, wincing at the light, and goes to shower, become more human.  
  
*  
  
He goes to visit Zayn on what he hopes is his lunch break. (He doesn’t know, of course; he can’t find a way to fit so what time do you get to take a break? into their relationship of sorts. He wants to know as much as he doesn’t want to know. If he treats him like this, like he’s nothing special, maybe it won’t hurt so much when they break.)  
  
He doesn’t really know what to say - because he wants to ask Zayn for forever, to always be there, but he knows how this game ends (with Harry leaving, getting bored; with Zayn discovering who he really is and being the one to leave). And so he can’t say that, he has to -  
  
“Zayn,” comes out of his mouth when he gets up to the window, and he gets a look of mild shock in return.  
  
Zayn wipes his hands on his shirt and looks at the clock. “Five minutes.”  
  
Harry nods, walking back, looking out the window. After a moment, he feels eyes on him.   
  
It’s the blonde one (Zayn told him his name once, must have, but it’s slipped Harry’s mind since then); he rolls his eyes when he catches Harry looking and grabs Zayn, gives him a kiss on the neck.  
  
And Zayn - he gives him this look, one Harry’s seen a thousand times before; like he’s absolutely happy and. He looks content, is what it is.  
  
Harry watches and feels like a bit of an outsider (because he doesn’t want Zayn to look at him like that but maybe he does, maybe he wants something more than fucking him hard and holding him down; maybe, maybe), and goes outside to the alley, alone.  
  
Zayn joins him after a few minutes, and Harry knows he’s grinning, can hear it in his voice. “Yeah?”  
  
Harry whips around and kisses him, hard, pressing him against the wall. He wants everything but most of all this, Zayn pliant and small beneath his hands, willing to let him do anything.  
  
But Zayn pushes back (he can’t give Harry even this) and holds still, shaking his head. “What?” he whispers.  
  
Harry smiles. “Thank you,” he murmurs, leaning in to whisper the words against Zayn’s lips.   
  
“For what?” and this is almost hesitant, hands shaking slightly.  
  
Harry smiles, nosing at Zayn’s jaw, and shrugs. “Last night.”  
  
Zayn stiffens, shaking his head. “You don’t need to thank me for that.”  
  
Harry swallows, thick. “Yes, I do. You didn’t have to - you know. Help me.”  
  
He gets a half-smirk in return for that. “Guess I’m just a nicer person than you expected, yeah?”  
  
Harry stares at the ground, and nods. “I - yeah. But this is just between you and me, right?”  
  
Zayn shuts his eyes. “Yeah, ‘course.”  
  
“Because -”  
  
“Look, I won’t fucking tell anyone you’ve got a heart, all right?” Zayn shouts, turning to face the wall, and crosses his arms. He’s shaking slightly, but he stays where he is. “Your secret’s safe with me, you can go fuck off.”  
  
Harry frowns, walking so that his chest is pressed against Zayn’s back. He wraps his arms around him, talking into his ear. “Is that what you want?”  
  
“Doesn’t matter what I want,” Zayn murmurs, shaking his head.  
  
“Of course it does.”  
  
Zayn breathes out hard through his nose. “Please. I’ll call you soon, okay? I just need you to not be here right now because I don’t want to - say something I’m going to regret later.”  
  
And Harry’s hit with a sudden urge to hear that, to know just what Zayn would regret (what’s he got to regret - he’s twenty, got the whole rest of his life for that). He wants to cut Zayn open, see what’s inside of him, what makes him tick and set him off. “What is it that you’d say?”  
  
“Harry, please.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Zayn whips around, and he’s shaking again, harder. “I’d say that you need to stop being so sorry for yourself, that you’re the one who’s fucked everything with Louis up. This is on you and drowning yourself in alcohol just makes you pathetic.” He breathes out, sharp. “And you’re fucking everything up now, too, because you’re too proud to have an apology be alone.”  
  
Harry just stares at him.  
  
“That enough for you?” Zayn asks, weak.  
  
And without another word, Harry leaves.  
  
Fuck you, he thinks when he gets back to the cab, fuck you because he’s not feeling sorry for himself - he’s not doing that, he’s just not impressed by the way Louis is flaunting Eleanor.  
  
(And Harry’s glad he got the honesty but not that he fears he’s lost Zayn forever, that they can ever go back to the early relationship - as though it ever was one - they once had.)  
  
*  
  
Zayn goes home.  
  
Niall curls up next to him on the couch and they lie there for a long while, breathing together.  
  
“You okay?” Niall asks when it’s one in the morning and they haven’t moved.  
  
Zayn presses his face into his chest and doesn’t make a sound. Niall’s arms tighten around him, though, and they don’t move for a longer time.  
  
(“He’s falling apart,” Zayn says, when the light’s just beginning to stream through the window.  
  
Niall nods. “I know.”  
  
“I think I might be, too.” This is soft, scared.  
  
“I know.”  
  
And Zayn lets himself be held.)  
  
*  
  
Harry sort of falls apart after that.  
  
Zayn doesn’t call (even if he promised, he promised) and Harry pretends that he doesn’t care.  
  
He goes into work and he shouts at people, throws himself into defending those who are better people than he could hope to be; and he doesn’t think about Zayn, alone or with the blonde (with someone who’ll treat him better than Harry ever could).  
  
He tells himself he’s okay.  
  
Until -  
  
Louis comes into his office, and he’s tan and carries himself taller, more carefree.  
  
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice low, like he cares.  
  
Harry laughs, a low, broken sound. “Fuck you,” he says, too loud for the office (but not loud as he wants to be). “Fuck you.”  
  
Louis smiles at him, walking all the way into the office. “I’ll take that as a no, then.”  
  
“Fuck you,” repeats again like a mantra.  
  
Louis reaches for him. “Harry -”  
  
“Don’t,” and he’s shaking, “did Liam put you up to this?”  
  
“What? Liam didn’t -”  
  
“Zayn, then. Well, you don’t have to pretend - the gig is up, Lou, you don’t have to act like you care -”  
  
“Harry!” and it’s only when the ringing silence follows that Harry realizes he’s been shouting.  
  
*  
  
(Mr. Cowell talks to him after work that day, about disruptions and work ethic, and he says you’re fired, Mr. Styles in a pseudo-caring voice, like he gives a shit.  
  
Zayn doesn’t say a word out of line, only nods and Yes, sir and I’ll get my things.  
  
He packs up and goes home and for the first time feels completely alone.  
  
He pulls out his phone, thumbing through the contacts - but there’s only one person he really wants to talk to and - he can’t. Not yet.  
  
Instead, he gets drunk alone and it feels more pathetic now than it would have before.)  
  
*  
  
After a week of feeling like shit, Harry feels - better.  
  
(He wants Louis, still, but more than that he wants Zayn, in the ways that he should; smiling in the morning and making them coffee and he wants evening kisses, too.  
  
And he wants what they had but more, further, deeper.)  
  
He goes to the pizza place, because he doesn’t know where Zayn lives (and how sick is that, that he knows Harry inside and out but the reverse isn’t true even a little?). He’s not in but he waits, phone sitting next to him, for the shift to start.  
  
Zayn comes running in five minutes early, and Harry reaches out, grabs at his shirt.  
  
“I need to talk to you,” he says, in a rush, “please.”  
  
(For a long moment, he thought Zayn would say no; but then he’s nodding, quick, and they’re going to the alley together.)  
  
Harry breathes out, staring at the ground, thinking up his words. “I got fired,” he settles on, and winces. “And.”  
  
Zayn waits in silence, still angry (but Harry has to make this right, has to).  
  
“I did. Because - Louis. He’s happy. So happy.”  
  
He hears a sharp intake of breath, sees rather than feels Zayn’s posture tense.  
  
“I want - that.” Harry pauses. “I - fuck.”  
  
Zayn cracks a smile at that, looks at him for the first time, relaxes the barest amount.  
  
“I just - will you go out on a date with me?” and he’s expecting the no, the fuck you. It’s what he deserves; but he has to try. “I mean - tonight. Dinner. You and me. After you get off, or in the morning. Whenever.”  
  
There’s silence and he turns to leave, still staring at the ground; but then there’s a hand at his shoulder, pulling him in, and a whispered “you idiot” and “of course I’ll go out with you”.  
  
Harry looks up and then they’re kissing, hard, and Zayn’s grinning against his lips and his thumbs are pressing into his hipbones, and it’s a long while before they pull apart.  
  
“I get off at eleven,” Zayn whispers, “too late for dinner?”  
  
Harry smiles. “We can work something out.”


End file.
